Book Title: Ordinary Whore

Author: Dieter Moitzi

Publisher: Self-published

Cover Artist: Dieter Moitzi

Genre/s: Mystery, Romance

Trope/s: Family secrets, escort, healing, rebirth, finding a soulmate

Themes: High society, escort, finding oneself, false perceptions, finding the sense of life, resilience

Length: 87 222 words / 328 pages

It is a standalone book.

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A story of loneliness, loss, treacherous perception, family secrets, and… rebirth.

 

Blurb

People tell me I should count my blessings. “You’re handsome, Marc,” they say, “handsome, rich, young, and intelligent.” But then, given time and opportunity, people would always say inanities, I think.

Am I handsome? Honestly, I don’t know, but it seems so; handsome enough, at any rate, that I’m allowed to live comfortably off my looks. I’m not rich, mind you, but the men and women paying for my company fling enough crumbs of their wealth my way. I’m still fairly young, too, but since when is youth anyone’s personal achievement? Last but not least, I’m not sure about my intelligence. I’m not even sure being intelligent would be a blessing.

Anyway, I can’t complain—my life is not unpleasant. I’m a bit bored, a bit melancholic, my mood often as black as the clothes I wear all the time.

And now my father has died. It shouldn’t mean anything to me—for years we tried to have as few ties or dealings with each other as possible. But all of a sudden, everything comes crumbling down, and my life turns into an unwholesome mess…

 

 

Breakfast, next morning, is a hasty and silent affair. The good news is that Mother prefers to have her coffee in her room.

When we hear the distant din of the church bells, we reluctantly proceed to Angélique’s car.

The day turns out brightly lit, sun-blue, splendid. I’m not surprised. Even from his coffin, Father seems to conduct things masterfully, as if his penchant for perfection had survived him. This is clearly ideal weather for photographers and cameramen.

When we reach the huge square in front of the dark grey church, Raphaëlle murmurs something rather un-Catholic. “Holy shit!” I think is what we hear. I share her feelings. We knew there would be quite a buzz, but none of us expected so many people to turn up.

Black limousines are parked everywhere; government members, and députés, and sénateurs, and show-biz celebrities, and square-shouldered security goons, and policemen, and media people are milling around. The square hums with subdued blabbering; famous and wannabe-famous people in black hang out in the early springtime sunshine, happy to beam their glory into each other’s faces, happy to see and be seen. Father has never been a very popular politician; but he remains influential beyond his demise.

We park the car in a small side street. As we approach, I spot an eons-old show-celeb smiling at all and sunder, her short, white hair gleaming in the sun. Back in the day Father helped her kick-start an AIDS-fundraiser broadcast on TV at a time when most people were still studiously ignoring the issue. Father always had a seventh sense for press-worthy matters. A world-famous actress is standing next to the old woman, her face Botox-frozen into eternal impassivity. By their side I recognise another famous actor, who, by the looks of it, had the excellent idea of attending the funeral in an advanced state of ebriety. He literally sways like a poplar in autumn. I immediately envy him.

“I don’t want to go there?” Angélique declares all of a sudden, grabbing our arms. “I don’t feel, you know, like I’m part of it?”

“For heaven’s sake—pull yourself together!” Raphaëlle snaps. Her voice softens a bit when she continues. “Leave the scandals to Mother, there’s a darling. Now let’s go and say hi to the government. Come on!”

She drags us towards the church. While we exchange the appropriate piffles with the prime minister and his wife, I have time to study the other ministers. Some are chatting and exchanging jokes; Justice is reading his text messages with an eager expression; Interior is doing his nails with a blank look; Foreign Affairs is yawning and checking her watch none too discreetly. When the politicians let us go, we get cornered by the photographers. They insist on a session where we have to display sham-mournful grimaces. It’s long, it’s boring, I have only one wish: that this nightmare ends sooner rather than later.

Finally, we’re allowed to slip away to the edge of the throng, where we wait for the ordeal to start. The three of us are sporting sunglasses and disgusted pouts anyone could mistake for grief. The difference is minimal.

That’s when a huge, black limousine stops a mere metre from where we’re standing. A liveried chauffeur gets out, walks around the car, and opens the back door.

A thin leg in black tights appears, a shiny black stiletto shoe is set on the cobblestones.

Then, the second leg is placed neatly beside the first one.

Legs and staging leave no doubt.

Mother.

La Diva emerges slowly, relishing the fact that everybody’s gawking.

And—oh Mother! When I discover her rig-out, I’m torn between admiration, hilarity, and resentment.

Mother is wearing a tight, black number that underlines her still fabulous body. It’s just too short, way too short for her age and for the occasion. A black Hermès scarf is wrapped around her throat, revealing rather than covering up her tanned bosom. She is also wearing long black silk gloves and an enormous black hat with—ohmygosh!—a dramatic veil.

Her personal idea of a photogenic widow.

As much as I’m aghast, I have to concede that she has chosen outfit and time of arrival wisely. The photographers run towards her, jostling and pushing each other and yelling, “Madame Forgeron! Madame Forgeron!” Some even shout stupidly, “Monie! Monie!”

That’s all she needs. She starts to turn and pose as if attending the Cannes Festival instead of her late husband’s funeral. The bzzt-bzzt-flash-flash of the cameras and Mother hungrily sucking up the photographers’ attention make me want to vanish into the balmy spring air.

“This is too much,” I murmur into Raphaëlle’s ear. “You two go ahead. I can’t.”

“But…”

“I’ll join you after the service, don’t worry. The press will get splendid photos of the whole family. But this goes too far.”

Raphaëlle nods in silence, fighting back tears. Whether they’re tears of sadness, grief, or anger, I can’t say. On a whim, I peck her cheek and gently squeeze Angélique’s shoulder.

Then, I’m off.

Born in the early 70s, I grew up in a little village in Austria. At the age of 18, I moved to Vienna to get my master’s degree in Political Sciences, French, and Spanish. Today, I’m living in Paris, France, with my boyfriend and work as a graphic designer.

In my spare time, I write, read, cook fancy recipes, take photos, and as often as I can, I travel (Italy, Portugal, Morocco, Egypt, the UK, and many more places). My literary tastes are eclectic, ranging from fantasy, murder mysteries, gay romances to dystopian novels, but I won’t say no to poetry or a history book either. I’m more a hoodie/jeans/sneakers kind of guy than a suit-and-tie chap.

So far, I’ve published two short-story collections as well as four poetry collections. My first murder mystery novel “The Stuffed Coffin” has been released on January 6, 2019 and is also available in German and French. The French version has won the prestigious French Gay Murder Mystery Award 2019 (Prix du roman policier – Prix du roman gay 2019). My second novel “Till Death Do Us Part” was released on June 24, 2020. You can also find me on Rainbow Book Reviews, where I write book reviews under the pseudonym of ParisDude (for French reviews, have a look at my review site livresgay.fr).

 

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